My Spirit Animal

Only my closest and dearest friends know my story of seeing two wild wolves when I was around twelve-years-old.

Wolves were being transported towards Yellowstone for a wolf reintroduction program. They were kept at my hometown zoo before they continued the final leg of the journey. That night two broke out.

I had a paper route and got up really early to deliver newspapers on Sunday morning. No one was outside, only me and the cold freezing air of Idaho. Halfway through my route, I lumbered about carrying fifty pounds of papers in my bag down the empty street. In the distance, stood the two biggest, wildest, meanest looking dogs I'd ever seen, one black and one gray. The large black one turned and we locked eyes. A rush of energy, wild and stunning, filled my body.

Then the two big dogs galloped away.

I got home and and later that morning on the news was a story about the two wolves getting recaptured, caught gallivanting down a country road. They'd chewed a hole through the wire of their cage and escaped. I always remember them saying something like, "No one got hurt. It was before anyone was outside," and thinking, except me.

I told my parents, but they didn't believe me and convinced me they were just dogs. They could've been, but they were literally as tall as my twelve-year-old self.

In my first fantasy novel, I wrote about a wolf charm. It's a big part of the story. I came up with it thinking about that day on my paper route, and the sweet neighborhood boy who gave me a rose once while I was delivering papers.

So last night, guess what?! I saw a big gray wolf! No kidding! Just two minutes outside the ski resort on our way back, a wolf crossed the road in front of us and hopped up the snowy bank of the other side. He stopped broadside and stared at me. I locked eyes with it. Its gaze so powerful and intense, even from inside the truck.

I forgot how huge their heads are.

It all must mean something, right? :)

Life is magical.

Writing Again

I started a fantasy novel seven years ago from an idea I had when I was eleven. It's one of those stories that's a part of your heart. I wrote over 120,000 words, cut it down to 85,000, and now have revised it down to 53,000 for a MG novel. Along the way, I joined a critique group, have learned an immense amount about writing, and have seen my writing improve.

Through all this, sometimes I wonder what the point is. If my story is never read by anyone but me, is it still worth it? If' it's never good enough, have I wasted my time?

Then I remember the eleven-year-old girl cuddled up way past midnight, imagining a story, and scribbling away on a notebook. The heart and passion of purpose filling her with such dreams, she felt important.

Then I believe there still might be some reason and keep on trying.